


Irresolute

by SpicyChestnut



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Building a relationship, Communication, F/M, Falling In Love, Link is a noble, Verbal Consent, eventual light smut, growing together, no specific zelda-verse, reluctant betrothed to endeared lovers, zelink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyChestnut/pseuds/SpicyChestnut
Summary: At thirteen Zelda was betrothed to the oldest son of the prominent Nothiel family--Link; and though furious about her father foisting upon her such an old and outdated tradition as arranged marriage, over time she learns that, perhaps, one can find happiness in such circumstances--despite the odds.
Relationships: Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	1. Irresolute

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-word prompt for the "Of Quarantine ad Social Distance" series but grew... really, really large. I'll cross-post chapter 1 to that story, but the rest of it will be posted only here. I tentatively have 4 chapters in mind? But no set schedule for getting them out.

Zelda was a girl of certainty. She always had been and believed she always would be. Such was the consequence of being a disciple of scholarship and science. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, following a fixed course. The forces of gravity would unerringly cause a loose apple to fall from the tree, down to the earth. These were facts; certainties. And like these facts, Zelda was certain about her own mind–resolute in her decisions and opinions.

And, when the day came that the King informed her of her betrothal, she was resolute in her belief that she could never love a man forced upon her.

“I will _not_ , Father! How can you so cruelly force my hand in this matter when you yourself benefited from the freedom of choice?!”

“I have explained my reasons and I will not hear another word of complaint! The Nothiel family is of good standing and favored by the people. We need _allies_ , Zelda. _Ah_ —not another word!”

She snapped her mouth shut, crossed her arms, and stormed out of her father’s study.

The day she met him was like any other early summer day; the wind was mild, the temperature fair, the sun warm but not yet hot. She was dressed in her royal finery, working hard to school her expression into one of serenity and pleasantry (though she felt anything but), waiting for her betrothed in the east wing garden with her father.

As soon as he came into view, she only felt her certainty stubbornly resolve. He was smiling, warm and cheerful, dressed in a smart green tunic and trailing behind his father.

Oh, yes. She would hate him.

They were introduced–his name was Link, after the hero of legend, how ridiculous–and she curtsyed and he bowed and then her father walked off with his and they were left alone. Only then did she allow her mask to fall.

She was resolute: she may have to marry him someday but that didn’t mean she had to like it and it certainly didn’t mean she had to be nice to him. So she wouldn’t–whenever the opportunity afforded.

But then, he spoke; and ever so slightly, her certainty wavered.

“Princess, If I may… I can imagine this is not what you wanted. I’m sure you received the same speech from your father as I did from mine about the importance of political alliances.” He offered her a wry smile and she fell still, listening. “I do not expect you to love me, but seeing as we have been forced into this, I pledge to be a kind and cooperative partner to you, and I hope one day we can at least be friends.”

He bowed to her, deep and low, and shortly after his father came and took him away. But she would never forget the sincerity in his brilliant blue eyes, or the kindness in his smile.

They did not see much of each other over the next few years, though he always made a point to spend time with her at castle functions. He danced with her at the solstice ball, told her jokes at the midsummer garden party, and sampled hearty pumpkin dishes with her at the harvest festival. He was never forceful with her, and always asked of her thoughts and opinions.

Slowly but surely she was becoming endeared of him. He was kind, clever, and had an interesting perspective she found herself keen to hear more of. He made her smile—made her laugh; and her resolve—to hate him, to scorn their engagement if only to spurn her father, weakened further.

Some two years after their betrothal she received word that he would be traveling with his uncle for some time to train. His was a house of warriors, and like his father before him he was expected to master the art of the blade. She bid him an unexpectedly difficult farewell from the port of Lanayru one rainy afternoon, working to smother her sadness and the tears which threatened to spill—particularly after her father’s knowing glance.

As she rode back to the castle in the royal carriage, gazing out at the misty landscape of Central Hyrule, she vowed to lock away these unwanted tender emotions. She had been resolute in her defiance at the start of this engagement, and she would continue to be—right up to her wedding day. His departure was, in some ways, fortuitous; it would allow her distance to return to her senses.

After all, she could never love a man forced upon her like his.

Five years passed. She gained another two inches in height and her hair grew long, reaching down her back. Her figure slowly filled in—no longer that of a lanky adolescent, but that of a woman.

She received occasional letters from him—twice a year at most, such was their distance. Always they were multiple pages long, written in his familiar blocky font. He told her of his travels, of the people he met and the fantastical places he visited. She grew genuinely interested in his tales and looked forward to his letters, wondering where in the world he might be headed next.

It was this which spurred her to lock them away, all future letters going unread and unreplied. It would not do to entertain him, lest her resolve weaken.

Upon his return half a decade later she felt she had succeeded. All tender feelings towards him had been locked away with his letters, and her heart enshrouded in ice. She had not asked for this—had not wanted it, and she would be damned if she gave her father the satisfaction of victory.

They held a ball in his honor. They were to wed six months hence, upon her twentieth birthday, and so it was to be a celebration of their reunion and engagement. Her hand maids dressed her in the finest silks, wove flowers in her hair and draped her in diamonds. She thought, as she entered the ballroom to the sound of blaring trumpets, that she was ready to see him again; that she had gotten the distance she needed.

She was very, very wrong.

He stood before the railing awaiting her entrance, his father beside him, dressed in the forest green and gold that were his house colors. He looked as unrecognizable as she imagined she must.

His hair had grown long, tucked back in a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. His shoulders were broad—the muscle he surely gained from so many years of training subtly stretching the fabric of his doublet. He stood tall and sure, and when he looked at her, his eyes as brilliantly blue as she remembered, she felt all those tender emotions strain against their prison deep within her heart.

They greeted each other, him with a bow and she with a curtsy; then he swept her onto the dance floor, holding her tight and gazing at her with something akin to awe. She struggled not to blush.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

His voice had changed too. It was deep and rich, a velvet baritone to contrast the more neutral pitch of childhood.

“Thank you,” she replied shyly. “You… look quite handsome as well.” He merely smiled, leading them smoothly across the dance floor. She tried not to lose herself—in his eyes, in their dance, in the flutter of emotions overtaking her heart.

At the enthusiasm of the crowd one dance led to two, then three, and at the end of their fourth she insisted upon a break. She felt dizzy from far more than just the twirls of their waltz, and in desperate need of fresh air. He escorted her to the balcony where she gently fanned herself, gazing out over the topiaries as she tried to collect her thoughts–and her wayward emotions.

Not days ago she had been sure of herself—sure of her determination to spite this engagement. Now… well, she’d never felt so irresolute. For it wasn’t merely that her certainty was gone, she almost… _wanted_ to fall in love with him.

“You… didn’t answer my letters. Those last three years.”

His quiet voice pierced her jumble of thoughts and she turned to him, finding him leaning over the balcony beside her. His hands were clasped and shoulders hunched; he looked… distressed.

She fanned herself harder.

“Oh. I… I, um…”

He glanced her way, a wry twist to his lips. His eyes were sad.

“It’s okay, I suppose. If you just didn’t want to write me. I guess I’d just hoped…”

He took a breath, then released it slowly, training his gaze out over the garden.

“I… was really coming to like you. And I’d hoped that, maybe… you were too…”

Her heart skipped a beat and her cheeks felt warm. He turned his head to gaze at her, his eyes soft, a shadow of self-deprecation passing over his features.

“I missed you. It was… a long five years.”

She said nothing. Her heart was pounding, and the rush of blood in her ears drowned out her own thoughts. Butterflies were fluttering wildly within her stomach and she didn’t know what to do—what to say…

He offered her another smile, this one more sad than the last.

“It’s okay. I stand by what I said—I don’t expect you to love me, and I won’t resent you if you don’t.” He took a breath and turned. “It was nice to dance with you, thank you. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

He offered her a bow, then slipped back into the ballroom through the balcony doors. Zelda watched him go, wordless, her heart sinking; and for the first time she truly wondered if such resolve as the one she had clung so fiercely to for so many years—to hate him, to hate this engagement, to spurn her father—had ever been worth clinging to at all.


	2. Uncertain

In the weeks after the ball Link kept his distance, though a growing part of her wished he wouldn’t.

Despite how frequently he and his father could be found in the castle helping attend to wedding details, she scarcely saw him. The few times they did run into each other he was nothing short of a gentleman, bowing deferentially and offering her a warm smile and kind words. But a sadness always lingered in his eyes, a sadness that she felt responsible for; a sadness she wished she could banish.

Fittings for her wedding dress began four months in advance, and after seeing the designs sketched in the royal seamstress’ design book she began to understand why. It was an inordinately elaborate pile of white silks and lace and embroidery. It was beautiful though, it’s skirt flowing like a waterfall from the bodice, the veil trailing behind like a river. She admired the work absently as she was pinned with pattern sheets atop a stool, running her fingers over sketches of the dress drawn at different angles.

It was as she flipped the page, though, that her heart plummeted down to her feet; for despite all her worldly intelligence, she had missed one obvious fact: her wedding day would have a wedding night.

“Oh, you found them! I’ve been meaning to show you—do you have a preference? I can always add or remove fabric, depending on how modest you want to be.”

The seamstress gave her a conspiratorial wink as she pinned another segment of skirt. Zelda stared down at the row of rough sketches, each nightgown showing varying degrees of skin in different places. Her mouth felt suddenly very dry as she responded weakly, “I’ll... take a look at them tomorrow and decide then.”

From that moment on, what had merely been a looming event of frustrating inconvenience became its own small terror. Her days became consumed by anxiety and uncertainty and a string of what-if’s. Far too late she began to realize how foolish she had really been. Link was right—they were in this together and needed to cooperate, and like a child she had turned her back on his efforts to reach out—his efforts to build a relationship before their wedding, out of petty grievance with her father.

Consummation was confirmed in arranged marriages given they were political tools, and often not unions of love. Come morning they would both be questioned, and forced to swear to the completion of their union before priests in the castle shrine.

She was absolutely nowhere near ready. She understood the... mechanics of it, of course—she’d had a thorough education in Hylian biology and she was familiar with her own body—her own pleasure.

But... sex with Link?

The thought alone filled her with a flurry of emotions—some unexpectedly good, but most very bad. She was nervous beyond measure, anxious, and so afraid of sharing such a delicate, personal part of herself with a relative stranger. Would he be gentle? Tender? Would he be too big? Would it _hurt_? How could she possibly enjoy it at all with so many looming questions causing her such anxiety?!

How she cursed her stupidity—her foolishness. If only she had tried to meet him halfway all those years ago! Maybe then, the prospect wouldn’t be so overwhelming.

Maybe then she might actually have looked forward to it.

She sat and stewed in her anxiety, taking long walks in the garden and burying herself in books as a distraction. But the tension and anxiety only grew as time went on on. A month before the wedding, quite by accident she ran into Link in the hall and seized the opportunity to vent her fears. Without a word she pulled him into a side room, and gathered her courage to speak.

“Link, I—I know I have not been very good to you these past few months, and I know it is presumptive of me to expect such kindness from you, but I—I must confess I am nervous. About the wedding...”

She looked up at him, wringing her hands, trying to keep the absolute terror rising in her gut from rising up into her throat. Link blinked a moment, surprised, then his eyes softened. With careful movements he reached out and took her hands in his own.

“You’re not alone.” He admitted quietly. “It... does relieve me to know you feel the same.”

She let out a breath, feeling some of the tightness in her chest ease. He smiled at her, and squeezed her hands.

“I will remind you of my pledge all those years ago. Cooperation is the cornerstone of a successful marriage, and that requires communication and trust. I will do my best to communicate with you—to trust you, and I hope you feel you can trust me in return. I won’t do anything to hurt you, Zelda. I hope you know that.”

She offered him a smile, her heavy spirits lifting at his words. For a while after that, her anxiety lessened. She felt that perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad—perhaps they could make it work. Perhaps marriage to Link could be… nice.

But then, the day of the wedding arrived, and all her old anxieties came flooding back.

It started with the teasing comments of her handmaids as they styled her hair and duster her cheeks with rouge, innocent though they were no doubt intended.

“Oh won’t Master Link think you look _stunning_ ,” one of her handmaids sighed as her hair was twisted up and pinned to her head.

“Oh, once we’re done I don’t think he’ll be able to restrain himself!” another joked back.

“I heard from the servants in the training yard that he is _quite_ strong,” another whispered suggestively.

Zelda remained quiet and still, but with each comment her anxiety grew a little more, until once more her mind was spinning with questions:

Would he find her attractive? Did she _want_ him to find her attractive? _Would_ he be able to restrain himself? Would he be gentle on their wedding night? Would it hurt?

Would she still be this afraid when the time came?

Her mind was abuzz in the carriage ride to the Temple of Time, too distracted to focus, too anxious to pay attention. The ceremony passed in a blur. Only small moments stood out. She could remember the surprising weight of her bouquet, the way her father teared up upon seeing her as he prepared to walk her down the aisle. She could remember the look of reverence on Link’s face, standing resolutely beside the priest of Hylia, and feeling strangely pleased by it.

She remembered the soft murmur of his “I do” at the altar, and the soft press of his lips when he kissed her.

They barely spoke during the carriage ride back to the castle. The crowds flanking the parade route were too loud, too demanding of their attention, and she was too focused on trying to maintain her smile. They barely spoke at the banquet, either. After their first dance, a steady line of well-wishers kept them both preoccupied; but she remembered the way he held her hand beneath the table, squeezing her fingers in gentle reassurance.

While the quiet gesture helped get her through the chaos of the banquet, it did little to allay the gnawing anxiety plaguing her over what came after. For neither had spoken of it—they hadn’t had much chance. She didn’t know what he expected, though she knew what she didn’t feel ready to give. Her mind spun with the whispered comments of her servants, and though she knew Link was kind and thoughtful—by all accounts a worthy and gentle husband, she couldn’t shake the fears which lingered.

The banquet ended far too soon. After their formal departure she was whisked away by her handmaids to remove the many layers of her wedding dress, and don her nightdress and robe. She had opted for the most modest design in the seamstress’ sketchbook—one which still cut a deep V in her neckline, but at least it covered her shoulders and fell down past her knees.

Her hair was let down and brushed out, her makeup removed save for a modest line of kohl around her eyes. She was sprayed with perfume and her robe wrapped loosely about her waist, tied such to accentuate her neckline. She was given ten minutes privacy—to quickly bathe if she desired, to sneak a contraceptive elixir if she so chose; she used the time instead trying to get the shaking of her hands under control.

By the time she was finally brought to her new marital chambers she was freshened, dressed down and only just masking her trembling as a shiver from the cold. Link was already there, waiting, dressed in fine nightwear of his own standing before the fire.

The door shut too loudly behind her and she had to force down the instinct to jump. Link turned, gaze unreadable as he looked her over. He offered her a warm smile, and made a decisive cut across the room.

That was when Zelda lost her nerve entirely.

As he neared her breathing became labored and panicked, the room spun, and she was overtaken by lightheadedness. Distantly, as though through a tunnel, she heard Link calling to her.

“Zelda— _Zelda_! Here, sit. It’s alright, breathe slowly...”

He steered her into a nearby armchair and she collapsed, hyperventilating, onto the seat. Though it took several minutes, slowly her breathing eased, and her surroundings came once more into focus. Link gazed at her with deep concern, a glass of water in one hand, the other gently stroking the back of her hand.

“Are you alright?”

He extended the glass and she took it gratefully, though was unable to meet his gaze.

“I’m alright,” she said quietly, sipping slowly. Her face still felt hot.

“If I may...” he began slowly, “What was that about?”

Her cheeks burned and she shut her eyes, willing the embarrassment away. She couldn’t bring herself to speak—to admit the truth. He had been nothing but a gentleman and yet still she felt such anxiety.

She heard a soft sigh, then felt Link’s hand pull away.

“You know nothing has to happen tonight, right? I would gladly lie to the priest before I would force you into _anything_...”

Her head jerked up in surprise, mouth open in a silent ‘O’. Relief flooded through her, making her dizzy with it. Link watched her steadily, eyes soft if concerned. He risked bringing his hand back to hers, gently stroking her knuckles.

“You don’t… Zelda, I’m sorry—“

“No,” she interrupted, voice hoarse and faintly trembling. “I—thank you. That… was what I was worried about.” She stared down at her lap, unable to meet his gaze. “My handmaids made such comments and though I knew you were not as they painted you, because we had not spoken, I…” she let out a shaky breath, shutting her eyes tightly against her embarrassment. “I... I’m not ready,” she confessed, willing the tears to stay behind her eyes. “And I thought—because of the priests, that—“

“That I would want to consummate our marriage regardless.”

She nodded, finally daring to look up. A multitude of emotions filled his bright eyes, but most prominent was tenderness. He slowly lifted a hand, cupping her cheek, and she let out another trembling breath.

“Zelda... I know I didn’t get a chance to say this before the wedding and maybe I should have made time, but... I meant what I said. I want our marriage to be built on cooperation and trust, and that won’t happen if you feel unsafe. I know, eventually, we will be expected to have children, but... I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. And if this takes time, then... it takes time.”

She felt her heart skip a beat—out of relief, appreciation, and perhaps... something more. She offered him a watery smile, and placed her own hand over his.

“Could we maybe, just... get to know each other instead, tonight?” She dared to ask softly. His smile widened and he nodded, running his thumb over her cheek; and she felt for the first time that, maybe, their wedding night wouldn’t be so bad.

He set about piling blankets and pillows on the floor before the fire, creating a veritable nest of padding. He brought the bottle of champagne left for their private celebration and set it on the floor, pouring them each a glass as they curled up together before the crackling hearth.

Companionable silence reigned between them as they quietly sipped from their flutes, listening to the fire; but by the time Link was pouring their second glasses, the alcohol had worked its way into her system and Zelda’s courage grew. She stared into the flames, the words flowing from her lips with the urgent need to be free—to clear the air, and begin building the relationship of trust Link had spoken of.

“I’m sorry. That I never returned your letters,” she began, swallowing back her shame. “I enjoyed them so much those first two years, but I thought... I thought if I came to like you, even a little, it would prove my father right in making this match. And I was so angry with him for doing it—for taking away my choice... So I stopped reading them, thinking if I had some distance I could hold onto that anger...”

She took another sip and let out a weary sigh. “I can see now how foolish I was being… It wasn’t fair to take my anger out on you.”

“I was angry too,” Link admitted, swirling his glass. “At my father. I didn’t speak to him for weeks after he told me. For a long time I... didn’t want to like you for the same reason.” He looked up and offered her a sheepish smile. “But then I met you, and, well… you’re a hard person not to like.”

Zelda couldn’t help a quiet chuckle. “So… we were both being stubborn fools.”

“You maybe a little more than me,” he quipped, and despite herself she laughed again.

“Do you think… Can we… _start over_ , then? I _would_ like to—to get to know you. I had such fun with you as a child, but I don’t feel I know you as an adult.”

Link eyed her thoughtfully, then set down his flute of champagne, extending a hand.

“I’m Link, first son of the house of Nothiel, and your newlywed husband. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She laughed, setting down her own glass and reaching for his hand.

“I’m Zelda, Crown Princess of Hyrule, and your newlywed wife. It is a pleasure to make _your_ acquaintance.”

He gave her a wolfish grin as he shook her hand. She could feel the callouses on his palm and the strength of his grip in his handshake, and one of her handmaids comments came back to her unbidden:

_‘I heard from the servants in the training yard that he is quite strong…’_

The image of those hands in very different places—exercising their strength in very different ways, flashed across her mind. She blushed, biting her lips and turning to hide her face as she released him. The champagne must be getting to her.

“You’re very cute when you blush.”

She glanced up, startled, to find Link studying her intently, a teasing smile on his face. She looked away, trying to hide how his words only served to turn her cheeks redder.

“Oh—I, um... thank you, I suppose.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back on his elbows and staring into the fire. He said nothing more and so she allowed herself a quiet, steadying breath before mirroring his posture, extending her toes toward the heat of the fire.

“It was a nice wedding, all things considered.”

She watched the flames lick up a log, and let out a soft sigh.

“It was. You were very handsome.”

She offered him a sincere smile, mind casting back to how regal he’d looked standing tall before the altar in wedding white, the gold aiguillette draped across his shoulder signifying his ascension into royalty. He met her gaze, eyes softening, expression turning just a little bit tender.

“And you were very beautiful.”

Warmth suffused her cheeks again and she looked away, that persistent flutter in her chest too difficult to completely ignore. Silence fell briefly, then:

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Zelda?”

She turned, surprised by the question. He was studying her intently once more, brow faintly furrowed.

“I… I don’t know if I would say ‘uncomfortable’…” she began shyly, leaning forward and tucking her legs to the side. She reached for her champagne and took a fortifying sip.

“Then… how do I make you feel? If you don’t mind my asking. I can’t help but notice how frequently you blush in my company, and I don’t… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The fluttering was back with a vengeance, and she knew her cheeks must be growing redder by the moment. It was a question she wasn’t sure she knew the answer to herself, truthfully.

“You make me feel… nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

“Um… good nervous. I think.”

He was silent a moment; then, she heard the shuffle of blankets, and looked up to find him closer—close enough that she could lean sideways into him if she chose. Or lean up and kiss him.

If she chose.

“Zelda, I…”

His voice was rough, reaching that low velvety timbre, and she felt something within her tremble in reply.

“I… don’t want to move too fast, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, but… I would very much like to kiss you.”

The crackle of the fire was the only sound besides the quickening of her heart beat ringing in her ears. She had always been careful around him—never stood too close, never allowed herself to stare, never held his gaze too long. But they were married, now. She knew that the time for such propriety had long passed, and so for the first time since she met him, she allowed herself to fall head first into his eyes—to swim in those deep pools of blue that watched her with such intent. She was close enough to smell his woody cologne, close enough to touch, and if she only leaned forward…

Impulse seized her; and whether it was the quiet solemnity of the moment or courage gifted by the champagne or merely her own curiosity, she leaned forward just a little more, and whispered:

“Okay.”

He watched her a moment, gaze flitting between her eyes and her lips. Then, his hand rose to cup her cheek, sliding down to her neck, thumb brushing along her jaw. Slowly, he pulled her toward him, and she let herself be. His breath was sharp with the tang of champagne, fanning warmly over her cheeks; and she shut her eyes, her heart skipping an anticipatory beat…

Then he pressed his lips softly against hers.

Unlike their kiss at the altar, this wasn’t perfunctory or for show—for the benefit of an audience. Emotion ran beneath the surface like the turbulent waters of Regencia River beneath a thin sheet of winter ice—ever just on the verge of breaching. Though his lips moved slowly, carefully, there was a quiet intensity to his kiss--a tenderness in the way he held her close, his fingertips pressed gently against her hairline.

Her heart beat, frantic and hard, against her ribcage. Her breathing was quick and shallow. But she scarcely noticed amid the blossoming warmth spreading through her limbs or the flutter in stomach which made her feel like she was floating. An urgent need was growing within her—a need to be closer, to feel more than just his hand on her cheek. With each gentle movement of his lips this need grew stronger. When he angled her head to kiss her deeper, a gasping sigh escaped her.

And when he carefully laid her back against the blankets, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him closer.

Her earlier anxieties about physical intimacy had fast faded away. She felt an unexpected peace, tangled in his arms like this; for she understood, now, the depths of his sincerity, and the seriousness of his commitment. He would not push her, would not rush. They could grow into their relationship in their own time, and he would accept the boundaries she put forth, whatever they be.

Perhaps it was this openness which helped to open her own mind—and open her heart; for now that she had allowed the possibility to exist, she found the prospect of a life with not nearly so frightening as she once did. He was kind and honest, funny and sweet; and now that she’d had a taste of his kiss as well—a kiss that had so easily brought her to her knees, she was beginning to realize that perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps it was possible to fall in love with a man you didn’t choose.

And, maybe, she was already halfway there.


End file.
